For What It's Worth
by fangsandvervain
Summary: Revised Catcher in the Rye ending. Reviews would be rather pleasant.


Catcher in the Rye Ending

Old Phoebe really killed me sometimes. She really did. You could be having the worst time of your life and she'd just pop up, like one of those crumby books with the _fancy_, colored pictures that spring up in your goddamn face when you flip the page. It wasn't like you could be mad at old Phoebe, even if you were having the worst degree burn your parents had ever put you through. I wasn't even lying, either.

As soon as we got home from the carousel, the first thing we did was just sort of stand in the foyer, letting the rain roll off of us in waves onto some terrific-looking carpet that I'd never seen before. To be honest, I was a bit shocked, seeing as I'd only been gone but a few damn days and already my parents had changed _something_ about the house. Then I felt guilty because the carpet looked nice and here we were just soaking the hell out of it. The only thing dry about me was my face, thanks to my red hunting hat that no one seemed to like. At least now I could prove that it was good for something other than making me look like a phony kid.

Anyway, my mother must've heard us come in because she walked into the foyer with her lips _pursed _and all, probably caring more about the new carpet than the fact that I was actually home instead of wandering all over New York. She didn't know that I'd stayed anywhere except my dorm at Pencey, but apparently she _did_ know that I had been expelled, because she stared at Phoebe and told her to go change into something dry. That just about killed me. I loved how she didn't even tell me to go change before her and my father started grilling me. I mean, come on. If you want me to cooperate, you could at least have the decency to let me take off my grimy, water-logged underwear. Now, she'd be lucky if I didn't just take my red hunting hat and go catch a taxi back to that crumby hotel.

Of course, my father came into the foyer with his damn newspaper under one arm and his evening glass of gin with the teardrops of condensation dripping off the rim. I sort of wondered if my mother would have yelled at him for letting his watery glass rain on the carpet if she'd noticed. Sure enough, the two of them started in on me, both of them taking turns barking at me. Mostly, I just tuned out half of what they said, occasionally nodding when I was supposed to and glancing about the room like I was impressed with what they'd changed in the short time that I was missing-in-action. I'd almost expected old Mr. Spencer to come round from the sitting room and start chucking things at me.

It wasn't long before my eyes grew bored with playing games and they glanced over toward the stairs. That's when I saw old Phoebe, peeking around the corner like she did when we used to play spies. She was sort of funny that way, bringing back random memories that I thought I'd forgotten. Her hair was long and curly from having been soaked in the storm, and for a minute, I felt stupid and selfish. I should've made her wear my goddamn red hunting hat. I didn't even _have_ that much hair and none of it got soaked. Now here she was, poor Phoebe. She was liable to get some sort of nasty cold. Was it weird that I thought she looked just terrific, though? I mean, with her hair a mess of damp tendrils and her new, velvet dress all ruined? Only she could do that to you, I'm telling you. You know, make you just want to dance with her even though it looked like she'd showered in mold or something. I was quite depressed when Phoebe went back around the corner. There were no distractions left.

My mother was doing most of the yelling and even she seemed to be winding down. My father hardly backed her up at all, only throwing in a couple stupid expressions that he'd heard in his day. He threw in more sips to his gin glass than anything, his goddamn crusty moustache covering half the glass. Hell, between his slurping and my mother's screech, I would've been at a loss for volume if I cared to share anything.

You probably won't even believe me when I say this, but I swear to God I'm not even lying. Good old Phoebe came skipping down the steps in what I could only guess was her Benedict Arnold costume for her school play. Her fake moustache rivaled my _father's_, for Chrissake. The soles of her shoes thumped across the hall, too heavy for her little-kid feet. That Phoebe aimed for the gap between my parents, standing right in the middle of them. My mother stopped, mid-sentence, probably wondering what in the hell her daughter was doing. It was a depressing sight, watching my father almost go cock-eyed while he stared at Phoeb, his glass tipping precariously in his wrinkly hand. What she said next, though, almost knocked my socks off. It really did. She curtsied, both of her pale hands grabbing the dusty old petticoat on either side, and asked our parents if they wanted to see her say her lines in the living _room_. For a minute, I thought they'd start laying into Phoebe for interrupting. But really, what they did was look at me all weary-eyed like I was some sort of crumby disappointment and then followed that rascally Phoebe into the living room. Apparently she had the same effect on everyone, so much that everyone felt obligated to obey her. What kind of girl just magically gets the lead role of some bastard guy in a play, anyway? Phoebe does, because no one can resist her sickly charm. It depressed me to no end to think that she had the possibility of using that to her advantage. My sweet, kid sister had the potential of a criminal if she wanted to be one. You had to congratulate the kid. At least she had some skill, unlike her dead-beat brother. What could I do besides be a complete _idiot_ to a prostitute and make fun of pimply kids like Ackley?

I guess my parents thought I'd follow them or just go to my room or something, but I didn't. Phoebe created a distraction for a reason and I'd escape while I got the chance. If you want to know the truth, I got a real kick out of my kid sister sometimes. She always knew what to do. Surprisingly, her Christmas dough was still dry in my pocket and so was this half-sharpened pencil that I'd chucked when I went to drop the note off at her school. I went over to the pad of musky-smelling paper that my mother kept by the phone and wrote a note for my smart-as-hell sister.

_Dear Phoebe,_

_I'll come back for you one day, I swear. Remember the log cabin I said I'd build? There'll be a bedroom just for you, with a wad of Christmas dough bigger than the one you lent me waiting for you on the bed._

_Love, Holden_

On the way out, I made sure to wipe my muddy shoes on my mother's new carpet. Phoebe would probably hide her giggles while my mother cleaned up my mess. My father would probably stay in the den and drink himself silly.


End file.
